


bringing in the light

by peradi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Archangels, Bargains, Blasphemy, How to save the world, M/M, Poor Dean, Prophetic Dreams, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, dubcon, gay sex saves the world, gay sex stops the darkness, i bet you anything this is what happens, i really want this to happen, sam is angel catnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:18:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester asked for a sign, and now the wound on his hand won't heal and all his dreams are red. </p><p>He doesn't want to understand, but he does, and he's finally got conclusive proof that God exists and wants the world to endure. And He is clearly an arsehole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bringing in the light

There are mistakes and then there are _mistakes_ and Sam suspects that this may fall quite firmly into the latter category - an act of such mind-boggling stupidity that Hunters will sing of it in the years to come. If there are years to come. He’s got his doubts. The apocalypse is coming with the teeth and breath of a dragon, and he’s really running out of options.

Dean’s been distant. Dean’s always distant when he’s planning something suicidal, and if Sam wasn’t fretting over his own suicidal -- possibly genocidal -- plan he would confront his brother. But there’s a time and a place for those fraternal spats -- _how dare you try and kill yourself/end the world/both to save me? how dare you?_ \-- and they always follow the same script and Sam, Sam is tired of it all. Tired of the fight, the flight, the madness and the pain. Tired of watching the water of time flow on and on, churning to red as it approaches the future -- because, honey, those waters run red.

\--

It starts with the visions. Well. It starts with a prayer. And then the visions come, and they are terrible, and they are red. Hooks. Barbs. Metal and pain. A single iron-filled instant stretching out into eternity. The taste of copper. His blood. The walls, red with his blood; a high, vaulted ceiling adorned with everything he has ever feared.

Nightmares, the like of which he hasn’t had in four years.

It takes him a little too long to figure it out. The revelation comes five days after he purged himself, three days after he met up with Dean again. He wakes drowning in his sheets, sweat slick on his skin, his heartbeat ringing hard in his ears. He’s panting. He’s sobbing. Tears run down his face and beside him Dean sleeps deep; the only hint that his brother is suffering is the tension in his hands. The white spires of his knuckles sticking out.

Sam gets out of bed. The air is strikingly cold, and his sweat congeals.

The window is open. The curtains blow in like winding ghosts.

Half in a trance, Sam nudges the window wider. The moon is huge and bloated and full, and the stars are vicious bites of silver in the black flank of night. There are scuds of clouds, black and grey as the pelt of a wolf.

He thinks: _I’ve been having this dreams Dean, and when I wake -_ -

The moon is too bright. His eyes water; his vision fractures into prisms. He screws his lids shut, knuckles at them, opens his eyes wide -- and the brightness, the strange and terrible light, is gone and the moon is just there. A normal moon. Full. Distant.

(like an eye)

And he wants a drink, so he steals a bottle of Dean’s scotch and swigs it and it’s not scotch he’s drinking it’s blood -- thick and syrupy and rank -- and he cries out, drops the bottle

(it shatters)

and then Dean wakes, crying concern, but Sam’s not paying him any attention. He dropped the bottle. He goes to pick it up, not quite understanding why, and he gets the wrong bit -- the shattered edge, not the neck -- and slices his palm open in a single, clean cut, and the blood flows for real this time.

And Sam Winchester _understands_.

\--

The dreams stop after that night, as though God -- or _whoever_ \-- knows that he knows. Instead he gets restless. His skin is too tight, his heartbeat too loud. He stays awake, knocks back coffee, researches. There’s a case -- not a Darkness-themed one, but a case -- and since they’re still in the business of saving people and hunting things they go to investigate.

A nest of vamps in Maine: living in the forest, eating lumberjacks.

They deal with it fairly quickly. It’s when Sam’s helping Dean pull broken vamp teeth out of a wound on his back that he realises that his hand hasn’t healed. It’s still bleeding delicately, sedately, almost apologetically: there’s a line of blood on the bandage no matter how often he changes it.

“Nasty cut,” he tells Dean. “It was pretty deep.”

And maybe Dean knows, and maybe he doesn’t, but the wound was never deep. It’s barely there. It just bleeds -- bleeds just enough that there needs to be a bandage, It’s a reminder, Sam knows. And it won’t go away until he obeys.

\--

The Darkness shows up two weeks after she drank down the soul of a good woman. She’s a teenager -- maybe sixteen -- apple-cheeked with health, with  a sweep of black hair that makes Sam think of Sedna, the Icelandic goddess who snarled the oceans with her hair and trapped all the best catch so that the tribes starved. She bats her lashes at Dean.

“Daddy Crowley’s taking real good care of me,” she coos, in the tones used by a porno actress trying to sound young and innocent. Her feet are bare. She’s got blood on her hands. “He’ll take care of you, baby boy -- all you need to do is come over to my way of thinking. I love you Dean, and you love me. You’ll take care of me.”

“Thanks for the offer sister,” says Dean, his voice low and quavering. There’s no assurance in it. He touches the crook of his arm, where the Mark was once etched, and flashes her a toothy not-really smile. “But I’m staying on the side of light. I’m going to kill you.”

She titters, like it’s all terribly amusing. “No you’re not! You couldn’t -- not now and not ever. But you --” and she turns to Sam, and her smile slices open, and it is the smile of a predator, a jaguar, a snake, Kaa. “You, well. You’re a bad influence on my Deany. With you gone, he’s gonna like me a whole lot more.”

She skips towards him. It would be better if she had lunged, jaws unhinging - but she skips, innocent as spring, and Sam knows what she’s going to do him and he thinks of the monster he had once been, and without thinking he throws out one hand.

“Kill me, but don’t -- “

He never finishes the sentence. He doesn’t need to. She stares at his bandaged hand. Her pale lips part. Her eyes flare black, black as the ending of all things.

“No! No, you bastard -- _no, no, no_ \-- you won’t. You think Deany will let you do it? You think he will?”

Afterwards, Dean asks him what he said to her; why he said it. Sam shrugs. Because the fact is that the words come from some deep and buried place within him, resonating in his lungs with the authority of the ancients, and they are the only thing he could say.

“The darkness goes away,” he says, soft and measured and smiling. “The darkness has to go away, when the morning comes. Do you understand?”

Judging by the howl of pain she utters -- by the speed she flees -- she understands very well indeed.

\--

Sam watches the sunrise the next day. It has been a long time since he really appreciated a sunrise: the way the black of night lightens first to navy the cerulean; the way the clouds blush girlish pink, gold frilling along their underbellies before the sun comes up, golden and resplendent and ancient. Gold and fire.

He’s got to act soon, or he can’t act at all.

He leaves without telling Dean. Dean might try and stop him, and he can’t have that. He loves his brother more than anything.

Dean won’t understand. Dean can’t understand.

But everything Sam is doing, he’s doing for his brother.

\--

On the phone Missouri said, “Oh honey, I have seen your future and those waters run red,” and Sam had smiled, thin and sharp and bitter. Now he pulls into her yard. His phone’s lying in a ditch, with the GPS on. He hopes that this will delay Dean for just long enough.

Missouri is old.

“How long has it been, Sammy?” she asks. She walks with a stick now, and her hair is grey. The years have not been kind. The _world_ has not been kind.

“Eleven years,” he says. “Last time I was here --”

“You had your brother with you,” she cuts in. “But he loves you far too much for this, don’t he? Oh, I wish you had brought him. It doesn’t do to leave family behind.”

“I’ve been dreaming --”

“--and when you wake all you see is the light, the sun, and the moon -- which everyone knows is just the sun bouncin’ light off some stone circlin’ in space. And the dreams are red, and the waking is gold, and you’ve come to me for help in killin’ yourself.”

“I need the light,” says Sam. The wind rattles a few brown-rust leaves free. They flap along the pavement. For a moment all is heavy silence, then Missouri snaps her fingers at him.

“I’ll do it for you. But you know that I won’t live through this either. Your brother won’t let me -- even if he does, I won’t let myself. I’m a godly woman Sam Winchester, and this ain’t right.”

“But it’s the only thing we can do.”

“Aye, that I know. Come on in and have some dinner. We’ve got til sun-up.”

\--

Sam’s guilt lies as an iron rod across his shoulders. He thinks they might snap from the strain.

But still: he stands.

\--

“Let’s see your mark then,” says Missouri. Sam unwinds the bandage. The wound is still there, as fresh now as it had been two weeks ago. He squeezes his fingers together; a sliver of bright blood emerges and runs down the crooks and curls of his flesh, into the calluses.

Missouri takes his hand in hers, turns it over, kisses his knuckles. A single, fat tear falls onto the floor.

“Got the collaberator?” says Sam.

“I’m right here Sammy,” Meg purrs, sidling out of the shadows. “Ready to give me your soul?”

\--

Meg’s mouth is cold and sharp and dreadful. Sam tries to make the kiss as fleeting as possible, but she grabs to hanks of his hair, yanks him close, bites and laps until his lips are a bloody ruin. 

“You taste of fire," she complains afterwards, dabbing his blood from her mouth.

“Is it done?” says Sam. “Is the deal made?”

“Yeah, big boy.”

“Right,” says Sam. Then, “Go ahead Missouri.”

Tears spark in Missouri’s eyes -- but she slits his throat with the clean swipe of a woman who knows exactly what she’s going.

With a series of ragged, wet breaths Sam Winchester dies.

\--

He wakes in Hell with Meg holding his hand. Here, in the red and terrible light under the earth, her face is less human than ever - her eyes are pits with no light, her skin stretched taut over her skull, her hands long and clawed.

“There aren’t many of us left,” she says, as they walk through a labyrinth of shifting, changing corridors; walls slick with gore and made of bone splay up either side of them. “Crowley purged most; Rowena some; her royal bitchness got the rest. But siding with The Darkness, well. It scared a lot of demons and scared demons turn to the old stories for guidance. I was there to tell them the stories. Stories of a light unending, and the saviour -- the Messiah -- the fucking Boy King.”

“I’m no saviour,” Sam says quietly. “He’ll probably kill all of you.”

“Oh, we know. You underestimate how much we fucking hate The Darkness. She swallows up souls. Nothing left to play with. Crowley doesn’t get it. He thinks he can use her to take the world. He doesn’t know that if she has her way they’ll be no world -- no beginning and no end -- just blackness, for all eternity; a silence so great that you wish for the sound of screaming; a void so absolute that you would die for one second of pain.”

“When did you become a poet?”

“When did you become a loyalist?” she spits back.

The sky is a churning, bloody mess. The light is a sick sulphurous yellow, and comes in flashes; there’s a great storm raging somewhere.

They walk past a segment of wall made up of living bodies, warped and twisted together. One man -- is it a man? -- has another growing through his stomach, one eye, a mouth stretched wide. “Kill me,” he rasps. Another face, this one half-fused with a thorned tree mewls -

“My mother, my mother --”

\-- over and over and over, shrill and high. The wall continues on and on. Sam sees no end to it.

He swallows back bile, and keeps walking.

-

“I can’t take you any further,” Meg says, when they are where they need to be.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Kill the cunt for me.”

“I’ll try.”

“I can’t believe this. Me and Sam Winchester, opening up --”

“Yes,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to hear her say it. “Well, you know what they say.”

“Darkest hour is before the dawn? Is that what you’re doing? Bringing the dawn?”

“I’m bringing the sun. I hope it’s enough.”

\--

Have you guessed yet?

Of course you have.

Sam Winchester finds it surprisingly easy to slip back inside the cage. The boundary is pliable, a bubbleskin straining at the edge of reality.

Inside: the room is high and vaulted, white marble and gold, done up in a parody of sanctity.

Lucifer is waiting for him.

He’s wearing Nick still -- he can be any form he likes but for some reason he chooses this, the tired old man, shoulders hunched and sores open on his lips -- but his eyes are bright burning gold ( _the colour of the sun)_ and his six sets of wings flare endless behind him.

“Where’s Michael?”

“Around,” says Lucifer. “Didn’t you bring him a host?”

“Dean’s...Dean doesn’t get a part in this. What happened to Adam?”

“His soul dissolved. You don’t want to know.” Lucifer’s face splits into a genuinely happy smile. “Always knew you’d come back for me Sammy.”

Sam’s tired. He’s so tired. But something in him ignites, something warm and burning; his skin can barely cage it in. “I fucking hate you,” he shouts. The vaulted ceiling shudders. “You ruined everything, everything -- _everything_ \--”

“Sammy --” Lucifer starts, placating.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Morningstar!” Sam snaps. Then he takes a deep, quivering breath. “I was talking to your bastard of a dad. If I ever find him, I’ll tear him apart.”

Lucifer -- for the first time in, well, _ever_ \-- looks surprised. Then he starts to laugh, low and joyful. “Yes. We’ll kill the Darkness and then we’ll kill God. C’mere.”

Sam, still shaking with rage, does. Lucifer stands, cups Sam’s face and kisses him.

Sam’s too stunned to respond. Lucifer had done

( _the rapier wit -- the wittier rape_ )

things to him all those years ago, and he doesn’t think about them. But he can’t exactly ignore the Devil’s attempts to jam his tongue down into his throat.

He pulls away. Lucifer’s still smiling like the serpent he is.

“I’m the day,” coos Lucifer, “and the sun, and the moon, and all the stars are mine; and I am the light, the light and the glory, and even with the Mark gone I’m still pretty intent on killing every son-of-a-bitch I want to. Starting with that usurper Crowley.”

“Fine,” says Sam, “yes, fine, yes,” and he kisses Lucifer back -- it isn’t love or lust, it’s despair and pain and the last act of a dying man. Lucifer opens his mouth, obliging, laughing into the kiss. Sam bites his tongue -- and Lucifer melts -- moaning, soft and wondering. His hands map Sam’s back, smoothing the fabric of his shirt.

_I am the day and the light and the glory i am i am_

The words sing in the back of Sam’s head -- for a sudden, shining moment he is in the heart of a star, he is the heart of a star, the first star, the first star in the daylight, the first star of the morning --

\-- and all is gold, and all is endless, and Sam lives.

\--

The first thing he does is tackle Lucifer to the bed. He’s all pent up energy and aggression and he’s human, and he doesn’t know where he is, and so he responds in a -- frankly -- manic, animal way. He kisses the Devil. Forces him to kiss back, holding his head so he can’t pull away, staddling his lap and grinding his hips and kissing away like a drowning man. Lucifer’s mouth cracks open in a laugh and Sam swallows up the syllables of it.

He uses his teeth, Lucifer thinks he’s an animal, so he might as well act like one.

Sam wants to hurt him. Unfortunately, the harder he tries the more Lucifer loves it -- he gives up on nips and fucking chews, opens up skin, thin streams of blood between his teeth -- and Lucifer coos, gasps, thrusts up against Sam, hard as diamond. “That’s it Sammy boy,” whispers the Devil, “oh yes, that’s it. I’m going to like this new you. You’re so broken. Gonna punish me? Gonna make me pay?”

Sam yanks himself away, disgusted by the lusr thickening Lucifer’s voice -- all too aware of the press of his own erection against his jeans, the chafing, the annoying organic processes that take adrenaline and create arousal.

They’re in a motel room. He doesn’t know where. It could be any one of the thousands of rooms he and Dean shared before the bunker: drab walls, dubious stains.

Lucifer cants his hips, sliding his cock up against Sam’s. “We’re in your head, Sammy boy. At the moment your pretty little meatsuit is lying split open in Missouri’s living room. Dean’ll be there soon. Now, what will he find?”

“You,” says Sam, thin and bitter and oh so tired.

“Nuh-uh. I’ve never lied to you Sam, and I never will. He’ll find us, together, ready to face the Darkness. I’ll let you chat to him -- I’ll look after you.”

Maybe he’s lying. Sam’s already said yes -- it’s not like it matters.

“Until then you want to what, fuck me?”

“I was rather hoping so, yes. It seals the deal.”

“Angels don’t make deals.”

“This one does. You’d feel so good wrapped around my cock Sammy -- I just want to hold you down, and fill you up and make you feel. I know you want it. Tell you what though, I’ll make it easier. Let me have you, and I’ll let you be the one who talks to Dean-o first.”

Sam wants to vomit. His skin is charged and hot, but Lucifer is cold as sotne under him, and all the while Lucifer is smiling, gentle and benevolent, the smile of a man who always gets precisely what he wants.

The wound on his hand pulses. Lucifer plucks one of Sam’s white-knuckled hands from his shoulder, unwinds the bandage, runs his tongue back and forth over the cut. He makes a soft, approving sound and shows Sam the healed palm.

“No need for a reminder anymore.”

Sam’s on top of Lucifer, frozen, knees locked. Lucifer takes his silence as acquiesence -- if not consent -- and lifts him up as easily as Sam once lifted Madison or Jess.

He drops the Hunter onto the bed. Springs squeak. Sam props himself up on his elbows and lets Lucifer pull a hungry, messy kiss from his mouth. Neither are gentle. Sam’s horrorstruck -- but the coldness of Lucifer’s lips, the feel of his bulk, well. It’s enough to kickstart his heart.

He grabs Lucifer’s hair and bites down. Lucifer yanks back -- heedless of the fact that he’s left a chunk of his lip between Sam’s teeth --  slaps him hard across the face, then lunges forwards again, kissing Sam with bloody lips. Sam tastes iron.  

They maul each other. Biting and scratching and pulling; somewhere along the way they both lose their clothes; Sam breaks Lucifer’s finger with a hollow clack, and Lucifer responds by flipping Sam onto his stomach and driving himself in deep. The world contracts into a shrill, shivering instant. Everything is white and red and pain. Lucifer utters a low, blissful sigh as he slides the last inch of his cock into Sam.

For a moment he just rests there. Sam’s trying not to sob with agony -- his arse has a fucking lightning bolt buried in it.

Then slowly, oh so slowly, he starts to pull out.

The next fifteen minutes are not terribly fun for Sam. Lucifer hauls him onto his hands and knees and holds him in place, pistoning his hips back and forth like he;s trying to break Sam in half. He cums with a long, low groan -- but doesn’t pull out -- he just rests for a moment, and  then his cock starts to swell up inside Sam again and the whole cycle repeats.

Except it doesn’t. This time is slower. Lucifer kisses and nips at Sam’s spine, laving his tongue over the wounds his nails as left. He mutters things like beautiful and mine. And this time he deliberately angles his strokes to catch Sam’s prostate, timing the push of his dick with the clutch of his fingers around Sam’s length.

When Sam cums, he sees the making of the first stars and for one breathless instant he is infinite.

\--

Missouri’s not the one to greet Dean as he arrives with a heart full of fury and hands ready to kill. Neither is Lucifer.

It’s Sam, standing straight and tall. “Dean,” he says. “We’re going to win.”

And his eyes, his eyes are _gold_.

 


End file.
